


I know you/I walked with you once upon a dream

by intothewildblueyonder



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Canon-typical moronity, Comfort, Confessions of love, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley sleeps to escape his problems, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Humor, Hurt Crowley, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, Pining, Romance, Slow Burn, Switches in POV, what a mood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 13:57:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19252573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intothewildblueyonder/pseuds/intothewildblueyonder
Summary: "But in the pauses from that, there’s an in-between. Moments of peace in which he’s just floating in the darkness, idly wondering whether he should wake up or not.And at some point, he is dimly aware of a voice from the surface above, a gentle voice, a voice that whispers: do not worry. I am here, and I love you.So he turns to this voice like a plant towards the sun, and he listens."In which Crowley, having exhausted all his options, decides he might as well sleep another century.The world doesn't always end when they say it will.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone!  
> This is my first work in this fandom, and I'd like to dedicate it to literally everyone who writes this paring because y'all are amazing and inspiring.

Crowley did not exactly _decide_ to sleep for another century. He’d done that already, right through the 1800s, and nice as that had been it did leave a foul taste in the mouth, not to mention a crick in his back.

He had gone back to his little apartment after the Apocalypse that Was Not Worth the Build-Up and Hang on, Aziraphale, _THIS_ Has been the Real Antichrist All Along and I dressed Like a Nanny for Nothing? He’d spent a few hours bullying his plants over reasons he didn’t want to explain (they _knew_ what they’d done). He’d thought of looking for Aziraphale, who had shot down his repeated offer of accommodation with a gentle smile, a smile that said _not yet, Crowley, not yet._

Or maybe that was just wishful thinking, and what the angel had truly meant was _no, Crowley. I am:_

_(A) Not interested in being with you_

_(B) Still unconvinced that demons know how to love_

_(C) Not in love with you as you are with me, so desperately, so stupidly that you once wrote ‘Crowley loves Aziraphale’ in the books that burned in Pompeii, in white letters upon Pollock’s canvasses, stitched it onto the missing three inches of the Bayeux tapestry_

(He had also done it on every page of Robin Williams’ ‘Good Morning Vietnam’ script, working on the logic that “he barely looks at the goddamn thing, angel, all of Hell spent weeks creating a script that would have America up in arms as being seen as the baddies - lots of violent potential there, Hastur was just squirming with joy - and what does he do but five blessed hours of improvisation? Fuck, I need a drink.” He – accurately – judged that this sounded a lot less romantic).

So Crowley had turned away from the door, steadily drunk his way through a bottle of whiskey, and tried very hard not to let his brain escape to thoughts of his best friend. Who, unfortunately, had not been moved either by trial by fire or the end of the world to…to confess _something._

 “What,” he asked of the ceiling and of his own hopelessly, disgustingly romantic heart, “you thought he’d think, ‘whoops, better get any last words in before jolly old Satan goes on the prowl’? Idiot.”

(He had hoped that. He had hoped it with crossed fingers and desperate hints, while shoving his hands deep into his pockets so he didn’t succumb to the temptation of just _taking_ Aziraphale’s dratted hand. He’d hoped that in arguments, before locating a map to Alpha Centauri, and while touching himself.

He had hoped so much that, now the chance was gone, his entire body felt hollow, deserted) 

Bless it, would that thick-headed angel ever get the hint? How many times did Crowley have to offer to elope with him? He could wait another thousand years to make Aziraphale happy. Fuck, if need be Crowley wouldn’t even _touch_ him, would be happy to hold his hand. All he had wanted was one tiny sign, one acknowledgement of _I know you love me._ And, best case scenario: _I love you too, but I’m still afraid of the Great Beige Office in the sky and Gabriel, that prick_

(all right, so those were Crowley’s additions, but it served Gabriel right for _ever_ talking to him/Aziraphale like that)

_So give me a few more days. Years, even._

That was all Crowley needed. Aziraphale had to know how much the demon loved him, he hadn’t exactly spent the last century or so masking his feelings. Aziraphale just…didn’t feel the same.

So no, Crowley did not change into his pyjamas and crawl into bed _planning_ to spend another hundred years asleep. He just…didn’t really work to rouse himself.

Time passed. His plants cautiously peered around, waiting for his fury. Dust heaped on the windowsills. Red lights flickered on and off on his answering machine.

And then, a week after he fell asleep, Aziraphale came knocking at his door.


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale, in his own defence, had been very busy after the averted apocalypse. There was Adam to keep an eye on, as well as The Them; as much as he enjoyed them, there were times when Pepper would stump even him with her monotone speeches. He would sort of flail helplessly, say, “Quite right, dear girl” and then rush back to his bookshop and Betty Friedan to research what exactly a ‘patriarchal paradigm’ was. There was Anathema to check up on. There were miracles to perform and the woman next-door needed her cat fetched down from a tree and-

Oh, what nonsense.

Really, he had been avoiding Crowley. Now that all the sanctions of his department had been lifted, he didn’t know quite what to do. One part of him wanted to _run_ to Crowley, to sweep him up in his arms and so on. But his other half, the guarded and cautious one who still couldn’t forget watching himself be pulled away, shivered at the thought.

In the end, he settled for calling. This did not meet with any definable sort of success.

  1. “Crowley! Hello, I…oh, it’s this thing. Truly, Crowley, you might be a demon, but answer machines just push the boat out. Well, call me back. I haven’t heard anything from…ooh, did we have a code for this? Them.”
  2. “Crowley, I hope you got a large commendation for these because I think they really are one of the worst things humanity has spawned.”



_(then a few seconds later)_  
“Not counting all that war business, of course. Don’t attack me with rants about ‘perspective’ like you did when I compared that sponge to the Mona Lisa. Will I be seeing you soon?

    3.  “Crowley, hello. I’ll be at our third secret meeting point, I’ve finally memorised that sheet you gave me. What I mean is that I’ll be there all afternoon, so. Please turn up, if you can.”

   4. “Oh, it’s this again. All right. I don’t know if you got the link I e-mailed you…well, _I_ didn’t, this very nice young man did in exchange for some cigarette money…don’t laugh at me, Crowley, I was desperate and the youth of today will do anything for a strong enough tip. Suppose you didn’t get it, then. Well, I’ll just tell you in case you’re…out. Apparently there was a live screening of _The Sound of Music_ in the park last night. Thought it might tempt you if nothing else could, right up your demonic alley to put me through a trial like that. Never mind. I’ll keep trying.”

   5. “Here I am, doing it with style. Er, well, this is rather embarrassing but it turns out that nice young man from before wasn’t as nice as I thought. He did something funny to my computer, I can’t so much look up the weather without being accosted by ladies…well, I’d rather not say where anyone could hear it. Do come by and lord it over me. Toodle-oo.”

   6. “Please tell me you’re all right, Crowley. I’m worried that they’ve got you.”

   7. “Anthony J. Crowley I have had enough of this. I am coming around _today_ , so please lay out your wine glasses.”

_(and a minute after that)_

“If anyone who has taken or…or hurt him in any way has been listening to these all along, I _will_ punish you. I might not have a flaming sword anymore, but I assure you you shall pay.”

You can understand why Aziraphale was beginning to worry. Crowley was, usually, a dominant presence in his life; sometimes at greatly inconvenient moments, but nevertheless always by his side _._ To think that he could be down _there_ , being tortured, doused with holy water, nibbled by rats...oh, the sheer number of possibilities made Aziraphale weak at the knees. Finally, he snapped.

Anyone milling around the greater London area that day might've turned their heads at the sight of a well-dressed man walking with such great haste, the most appropriate comment, "Where's the fire?" A few of these opened their mouths to say, "Here, is that a sword on his belt?"* but after the first word, immediately remembered they had left something very important at home and left in haste. An even smaller percentage - the lucky few who got close enough to see him and were not made to forget - idly thought that he looked as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. 

When Aziraphale bursts into Crowley’s room to find the demon tucked up in bed, it is a relief so great he feels breathless. Aziraphale is already chuckling, thinking of how Crowley will laugh at him, call him _mother hen_ with fondness, when he gently shakes Crowley. Rocks back on his heels, eager for him to wake.

Seconds tick by. Crowley does not move, apart from the rise and fall of his chest.

Aziraphale’s brow rumples and he nudges his friend again, this time a little harder. Then again, _again,_ because he knows what this is and he missed Crowley so desperately the first time it happened. Can’t go through it again, no, he just CAN’T, not with all of eternity waiting at their feet, not with a thousand open doors in front of them-

He shakes him, begs, _orders_ Crowley to wake up, until his throat is hoarse. Tears stand out in his eyes as he inelegantly collapses onto the floor.

All he can think of, as he buries his face in his hands, is: it wasn’t meant to be like this. After was meant to be their time, time for Aziraphale to act on every romantic gesture he’d spent the past years not-so-casually reading up on, time for them to slip out from under the firm hand of right vs. wrong, angel vs. demon.

Time for the most human pleasure of all: love.

                                                               *****************************

Aziraphale isn’t sure whether Crowley can hear him, but he figures there’s no harm in trying. The first day – after he has tried every trick under the sun to get Crowley to wake, from yelling, “Someone’s dinged your Bentley!” to dripping cold water on him – he pulls up a chair and. Just sits.

They’ve spent so many years talking that conversation, one-sided as it would be, should come easily. And Aziraphale, give him credit, does try that. He engages Crowley in mock arguments over moral rights and wrongs. He provides rebuttals to imagined words. He even goes so far as to insult himself, to really get into the spirit of…whatever this is, but his “foolish bloody angel” peters off, and he is left in a quiet flat, feeling empty.

Feeling alone.

“I know you’re in there, dear boy,” he whispers. “I know you can wake up.”

Nothing.

Swallowing down a lump in his throat, Aziraphale stands. “Right, well…you just take your time, then. Have a good rest.” He smooths down his waistcoat. “Heaven – oh, never mind – knows you deserve it.”

Crowley’s lips quiver, so faintly that Aziraphale half-believes he imagined it. But he didn’t. That’s all he needs to lean over and promise, “I'll come back, Crowley.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * that sword, you may ask? Oh, just 'Joyeuse', the legendary sword of Charles the Great. Perfectly normal thing to have at your disposal...


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All this support has been amazing, you guys rock! Please do keep sharing and commenting :) :)

_Come to me in my dreams, and then_  
By day I shall be well again.  
For then the night will more than pay  
The hopeless longing of the day.

\- ‘Longing’, Matthew Arnold

                                                     *******************************************************

His dreams are foggy.

He dreams of plants growing until they meet the ceiling, lush flowers unfurling over his head like an umbrella.

He dreams of a woman he once saved from death in New York because (according to his fudged paperwork) she’d go on to invent something  _truly horrific, Hastur, I could sense the evil in her, it’s called thinking outside the box*,_  but really (according to his cinder of a heart) because she’d looked so fucking terrified he couldn’t turn away.**

He dreams of the Bentley with its doors wide open and Freddie sitting inside, wearing nothing but a frilly collar and a daring smile.

“Darling, don’t you think it’s time to stop running?” Freddie coos, and then disappears, leaving behind only the faint tune of ‘Hammer to Fall’.

He dreams of his angel, over and over again, in hundreds of different ways.

He dreams of arriving at the church too late and seeing nothing but smoking rubble.

He dreams of Aziraphale’s soft eyes, his smile.

He dreams, constantly, of  _holding_. Being held.

That is what truly embarrasses him, the sheer physical  _neediness_ of these dreams. Sure, he occasionally dreams of sex, but even then it’s slow and gentle and ugh, so  _pure._ How could a man once credited with the invention of BDSM*** be so tame?

(Maybe because he’s never…done that. Not that anyone needs to know).****

There are so many dreams that consist of Aziraphale’s body against his that he becomes convinced he could sculpt it with his eyes closed. Smooth clay or marble into gentle curves, spritz it with the scent of ink and honeysuckle and a breath of fresh air, of all things.

_Oh darling, I do know a few things about these matters. Who else do you know who owns the original Canterbury tales?_ In this dream Crowley topples over in laughter and Aziraphale huffs, but then this is followed up with a scene where he confesses  _things,_ horrible sentimental things he could never say to another’s face

_(I love you so much it’s as if my heart beats twice every second – once to keep me alive, and once for you_

_The day I thought I’d lost you was like Falling all over again)_

and isn’t that great, his mind deciding to fucking humble him like that. When he wakes, Crowley unconsciously decides, he’s going to yell even more at his plants  _just because._

On a beautifully sunny day he marries Aziraphale, just like a human would. Sure, Aziraphale ties himself into knots over the perfect wedding cake***** and Anathema’s gawky boyfriend manages to half-blind someone with a champagne cork and Crowley can only stand on the church’s floor for a moment before yelping “Sorry Father” to the priest and leaping onto a pew…

But it’s perfect. When he slides from that dream to the next he  _mourns_ the loss of Aziraphale, beaming, a silly little sprig of gardenia in his buttonhole. He mourns the soft way Aziraphale whispered, “I tie myself to you, in this world and the next.”

Dream him pretends to vomit over this line. Dream him breaks down and cries into the angel’s shoulder. Dream him turns pink in the cheeks, mumbles something daft about eternal love.

Somehow, he is all of these people at once. And somehow he’s still aware that he’s really the person sitting alone in the cinema, watching highlights of a life he could’ve had.

                                                  ******************************

Then there are bad dreams. Aziraphale takes a starring role in these. In some he is walking away, slowly becoming a blur. In others, he is laughing the way Crowley logically knows his angel could  _never_ laugh, cruel and rotten and from the very pit of his stomach.

_I could never love a demon, you fool!_

_You’re pure evil, Crowley, nothing but._

_What a FUNNY little joke._

But then there are the truly bad ones, the ones that make him quake and whimper******. One in particular his mind keeps going back to, the default. 

Picture this: they’re sitting together in Aziraphale’s store, their usual places: Crowley perched atop the desk with a wine glass lodged into his hand, Aziraphale slumped in his armchair. Something inane is being bounced back and forth between them: the ethics of taxes, crepes vs brioche, which side should have ultimately got Caesar. The bell rings. Aziraphale glances up, face already setting into its  _browse the books as you wish but so help you if you try to BUY one_ expression.

Which then  _twists,_ into fear and shock, and Crowley turns around to see…

Here it diverges a little, to either (A) Hastur or (B) some under-demon. No matter. At this his mind always tugs him back a little, as if trying to protect him, but he sees enough.

They attack Aziraphale.

They tear into him, slash his wings.

They torture him and Crowley can't do anything, the bastards have tied him down, all he can do is beg until his voice dies.

_(No, no, DON'T, I'll do anything, just leave him alone, please-!)_

It always ends the same way: a slow fade out into darkness. Aziraphale's screams, however, linger. 

But in the pauses from that, there’s an in-between. Moments of peace in which he’s just floating in the darkness, idly wondering whether he should wake up or not.

And at some point, he is dimly aware of a voice from the surface above, a gentle voice, a voice that whispers: do not worry. I am here, and I love you.

So he turns to this voice like a plant towards the sun, and he  _listens._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *When talking to demons, Crowley found he could pepper in whatever mumbo-jumbo he fancied and they’d be none the wiser. This led to a glorious occasion in which he justified stealing a crate of books (a gift for his angel) as “unlocking his inner demonic third eye.” Completely. Pulled. It. Off.
> 
> **This woman, in fact, did go on to sort of invent double denim, so some may argue he was right all along.
> 
> ***Funny story, that…he’d been so busy spending time with Aziraphale that significant demon action had fallen by the wayside. His solution? Latch onto the first thing that both disgusted and tempted people. Bingo bango, ya demon gets a promotion.   
> ****At first, he just couldn't be bothered. That lasted for about two seconds of his existence as a demon. The rest of it was consumed by love and desire and why, in the name of all things dirty and covered in slime, would he touch anyone NOT his angel like that?
> 
> *****"Darling, do you think five layers is excessive? But you're right, it would be cruel to starve our guests, and you know, unhappiness at a wedding is a very bad omen, and what would that be saying about me, that I don't care about the success of my own marriage? You're right, Crowley dear, better make it six."   
> "...I didn't even say anything."
> 
> ******Aziraphale, who doesn’t have a glimpse into this world behind the veil, frets when he does this. Not able to wake Crowley, he clenches his fists until they ache. One particularly bad afternoon, where Crowley does nothing but whisper, “No, no, please” on a broken loop, not even some ‘comfort reading’ of Beowulf (frivolous, yes, but he’s at an end) will provide comfort.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on a roll, so this is gonna be longer than I thought. Maybe even ten chapters! (AAAHHHHHH)

Ironically enough, Crowley is easier to cope with this way. Demons sleeping, after all, don’t mis-quote Hamlet, think it would be a “really fun, and by that I mean wicked” idea to record failed marriage proposals and post them online, or use a _very_ rare draft copy of 'Under Milk Wood'* as a coaster (Aziraphale is still smarting over that).

Then again, they don't smile or laugh or make flippant comments about "being good,  _pah_ " or rant about soil density or do _any_ of the stupid things Aziraphale misses.  No, it simply isn't tolerable.

Aziraphale takes to narrating and performing magic tricks in front of him, hoping the surge of disgust will be enough to wake the demon. When Crowley shifts position after Aziraphale has deliberately fumbled a coin trick twenty-three times in a row, he is so _sure.**_ Even leans forward in his seat, ready to say…well, he isn’t sure yet. “I love you” seems fitting, but he’s spent so long pressing those words down. So afraid of not being the ‘proper’ angel, or Heaven calling him back up just to scold him.

Angels do not say such things. Here's what he learnt as an angel: You obey. You are good, and stay inside the lines, and brush any mess off yourself, and never stop to think about what you're doing. Just keep moving, a hundred miles per hour, because if you look at your place in the Scheme of Things you'll start asking who truly is right and wrong.

You also do not fall in love with the enemy.

And Aziraphale  _knows_ he should say it because he does, oh bless it he does, he loves Crowley in every single way. But it’s just very hard, when you’ve spent millennia scared of the truth. It’s like someone holding you by your collar, tugging you back every time you try to take a step. 

                                                                                  ******************************

“You know, dear one, my shop’s been gaining more customers recently! Of all the nerve! Why, I’d hardly finished my cup of cocoa before someone came in and tried to take my…I mean, well, _the_ autographed Orwell! You’d better wake up soon, Crowley, I might need some help scaring them away.”

                                                                                 ********************************

“Really, Crowley, this cannot go on. Today someone nearly purchased the Guttenberg! They were raving, I tell you, about what a miraculous find it was…took some quick miracle-work to get them to leave.”

A pause.

“Oh don’t look at me like that, Crowley. You once miracled a woman to give you her ice-cream cone just so you could throw it at a pigeon who…defecated _near_ your Bentley. I’m in the perfect moral right.”

 _Isn’t that just your problem?_ He can almost hear Crowley asking. _Our problem, even? Oh wait, no, there is no ‘us’ because…the greater angelic good?_

“Do be quiet, dear.”

                                                                        *****************************

“Oh, of all the…Crowley, what exactly is a ‘Yelp’? Because apparently, I have one, or, um, it has me. Gosh, some of the people on here are being most unfair. Do you think I’m rude and pushy?"

Interestingly, that's actually one of the kinder comments on the page. Some choice statements include: _when I complained about the smell*** he said "ah well, that's the effects of Ayn Rand I'm afraid"; could've sworn he HISSED at me when I dropped some Greek piece of dust; nice bloke but needs to lose the Ramones fan, he stared at me the whole time I was browsing.****_

“I could do with having you back, you know. Not quite the same without someone lounging around, trying to convince me to create an erotica section.”

Silence. Aziraphale sighs, re-positions himself in the chair.

“I sometimes wondered if that was your way of…” Gosh, his cheeks are heating up. “Of trying to tempt me. I did think that was what you were doing, for a while. Making me saunter downwards after you.”

It hurts him to confess this. It hurts so terribly to think back on how he used to treat Crowley, saw him as untrustworthy and despicable and if he'd just opened his eyes, if he'd taken all the sentiments he spouted and believed in  _good_ for once-

Well, it doesn't matter now. He'll just have to appreciate Crowley far more when he wakes, Aziraphale thinks. Mentally pushing aside the thought that this might take a while, of course, because that makes something deep in his chest ache.

"But you couldn't really keep it up, could you? It just doesn't fit with who you are."

                                                              ***********************************************************

“The Ritz isn’t the same without you,” Aziraphale says sadly as he eats a lemon square. There is a matching one inside his fridge for Crowley, when he wakes up. “It feels very odd to be sitting in front of a plate of fine linguine alle vongole, and to have things…not quite tickety-boo.”

He waits with bated breath for Crowley to rise, if only to laugh at him.

_(Shit, angel, you sound like you were dropped on your head at birth, or whatever fountain of glitter and Boy Scout programmes you angels pop out of._

_Crowley, how dare you suggest She would be that careless! Dropping Her heavenly servants… if you’re going to use the insults of the modern, do so with a little more RESPECT_

_Ah, so sorry. How’s this: all my hard demonic work seems likes peanuts when you just go around tormenting people with your catchphrases?_

_Better. Although rather hurtful)_

“You don’t even torment people anymore!” Aziraphale exclaims, apropos of that memory. “I’ve seen you glue a 20p piece to the pavement and call it a day.”*****

He considerately gives Crowley time to chime in with a reply – anything, anything at all, _I’m lazy, angel, that’s enough of a sin_ or _the next Wall Street crash isn’t scheduled yet_ , just so he doesn’t have to speak to himself anymore – but, nothing.

“You like people,” he says in an accusatory tone. “You want so terribly to be starting wars and plagues and…oh, starring in terrible be-bop videos, but you’re too _good!_ ”

He doesn’t know exactly _why_ this irritates him…except he does. By being a figure of small annoyances, Crowley has effectively been defying Hell for years. He broke the rules because deep down, he cared – _cares_ – for humanity.

And Aziraphale couldn’t even have the courage to make a move. Couldn’t revolt in anything but the smallest ways.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Crowley, _please._ If you wake up, I’ll, I’ll flaunt all the rules of Heaven! I’ll be wicked if it convinces you – well, maybe not that.”

(the thought of not spreading love and harmony sends a shiver across his body)

“But anything else!”

He grips Crowley’s hand, and finds it ice-cold. This more than anything scares him, the thought that Crowley is drawing further and further into himself. Split him open and there will be nothing but a husk, with a pair of eyes glittering from the depths. 

“Truly, I love you,” he promises. “Just give me another chance to prove it.”

Crowley, seemingly unmoved, sleeps on.

                  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *so rare because at the very back it had a tally, created by Thomas, of straight whiskies consumed in a row. His proud record therein was twelve. He would go on to beat this record a year later and, well, we all know that story.
> 
> **considering that Crowley was once moved to invent Windows 8 after watching Aziraphale crush his own hand between a set of Chinese linking rings (how???!), this was a smart bet
> 
> ***not that either of them would remember it, but that customer happened to show up the same day Crowley had burst a pipe in protest of Aziraphale confiscating his drink. Aziraphale, who was deeply upset at Crowley, maintained he was in the right and that a bookshop was no place for drunken rants. Crowley, who thought there was "nothing wrong with a - hic! - spirited debate over what a twat your boss is", claimed "freedom of speech, angel, thought your side was all for that" (but ended up fixing it AND fetching Aziraphale some fresh pastries because, you know, love.)
> 
> ****in Crowley's defense, he only glared so hard because that man was being far too flirty with his angel. "Had a good day?" and idle chat about the weather? TOTALLY uncalled for. 
> 
> *****this was entirely true. Crowley had followed it up by stretching, yawning luxuriously, and saying with a grin, "Always one step ahead of your sacred agenda, that's me, old fiendish Crowley. Drink?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a lot of pining is done

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your support is amazing, you guys rock! Next chapter: Crowley wakes up, so stay tuned in and tell all your friends!

“Adam’s been asking after you, darling. He told me we should mend whatever tiff we’re having.* Children are so delightfully broadminded these days.”

                                                                   *******************************

“Anathema’s doing very well for herself. Suggested you and I do a…a sort of double-date with her and that nice man. Tell me, Crowley, your department deals in depraved things – does that have anything to do with partner-swapping? Because if so, I may have to turn her down.”

A soft laugh.

“Newt might be very up-to-date on the WiFi, but he couldn’t hold a candle to you.”

He inches closer, resting his head next to Crowley’s.

“That’s why you need to wake up,” he whispers. “I’ll never be able to fall in love again, Crowley. I used to try, you know. To fall out of love. Or to love someone more suitable. But it seems you’re the end of the line for me, dear boy.”

                                                                        *******************************

“Do you remember much from when we bumped into each other in Egypt, darling? You boasted to me about having the favor of Cleopatra, she was the one who liked snakes…and we ate some exquisite bread. But apart from that, quite a quiet little place.”

Nothing.

“You were the one who came up with pyramids, I suppose. One of your lot. Great big temples, built by slaves or some much…seems to be quite a few sins in that.”

Nothing.

“That dear young girl, Adam’s friend, told me yesterday that pyramids are symbols of masculine power and self-idolatry. I’m not quite sure what kind of texts she’s reading, but I thought I could put her together a nice little list. Start that great mind off on the right foot.”

Nothing.

“Oh, Crowley…I do wish you would come back to me. I never have been able to do this alone.”

Nothing. Not even rising to brag,  _of course not, angel, your lot couldn’t even find their own arse with a Heavenly A to Z._

“Ah well. I’ll get there one day. Now Egypt – why, you may wonder? Well, I have just come into possession of a very interesting little text that some believe to be the original diary of Hapshepsut…”

                                                                               **************************

Some things never change,  _Crowley thinks as he floats in the darkness._

_For he can hear Aziraphale, even lost in the murky world of dreams. He misses some of it, of course, when he's fallen too deeply into the inner void to be aware of anything above the surface. Sometimes he can't differentiate between reality and dreams, as they've begun to blur alarmingly. Even the most innocuous snatch of speech cannot be trusted. Aziraphale blathering on about grilled squid, for example, could fit one of two categories: either he is hearing real life and the angel is just...being himself, or he is just DREAMING about a quality that brought him to love Aziraphale in the first place: enthusiasm, joy.**_

I love you, I love you, you are my own. _Aziraphale would NEVER say that, Crowley is certain. Love is not something a demon can lay claim to, or even deserve. Not like that. Aziraphale DOES love him, but in a...charitable way. His Daily Good Deed, his deposit into the bucket of someone collecting for the poor. Something you can write off on your taxes._

_So when he hears the angel whispering soft sentiments night and day, he does his best to block it out. Shove it kicking and struggling to the bottom of his mind._

_Every time Crowley thinks about waking he dreams of Aziraphale professing love, and it is nothing but a painful reminder of what he cannot have._

_The fact that these confessions are entirely true, that he is hearing not his own tormented mind but confessions of an aching heart, is unknown to him._

_*_ ****************************************

Aziraphale can, of course, not always be there - cocoa to drink, books to dust, customers to dissuade by any means necessary. At least, that is what he  _thinks_. In reality, however, he keeps drifting back to Crowley. Ancient texts, eating out, strolls in the park - all fail to hold any real pleasure. No matter how many good intentions Aziraphale leaves the bookstore with (to enjoy the sun, to stop worrying, to give Crowley some space) he quickly winds up back at Crowley's side. Occasionally he even sleeps on the sofa, starting awake at every murmur and rustle from the bedroom. He'll trip over his own feet in eagerness, so sure his friend had awoken...and then he'll be hovering above a demon who is still soundly asleep, just shifting around.

No matter. He can wait. After all, Crowley must have been waiting for, ooh, a good many years for  _him._ It's only fair to even the score a little.***

Day after day, he relays every detail of his activities back to Crowley, in the hopes it might stick, remind him what he's missing.

He doesn't tell him everything, though. Oh no. Aziraphale likes to stick to cheery things. "Do you know, I met the most delightful woman on the bus this morning! She told me my life line stretches forever, so that's a nice little confirmation" is acceptable, as are comments about bakeries, ducks, or the lucky discovery of first editions. That he spent a morning behind his desk crying, crying until his throat ached****, is  _not._ That he wants so badly to slide in next to Crowley, just hold him like he may never have the chance to do, is also not.

It continues in this way for another three months. Another three months of Aziraphale babbling on about whatever crosses his mind so that his fears don't have room to slip over his lips. Of Crowley sitting at the bottom of his mind, every now and then rising to the top to scope out whether it is safe to wake. Of the lucky few who make it through the door of That Bookshop (associated with That Couple) wondering what's wrong with the owner, who seems more snappish and absentminded than ever, and who sporadically breaks into rants about "how one should never neglect those they love in case they leave you forever and you wind up feeling like an utter fool who moves too slowly and oh, just take it dearie, I've got to close up."*****

Then, on one warm and ordinary morning, everything changes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Adam had also offered up the Pit as a place for a reconciliation date (something he was familiar with from his parents)
> 
> **Crowley has an unofficial list of reasons for his love. It can be summed up roughly with: basically everything about Aziraphale. What can Crowley say, he's besotted.
> 
> ***There are times where he wonders if Crowley is doing this on purpose. If - perish the thought! - Crowley rouses when Aziraphale isn't around, stretches his limbs, has a good laugh at the angel's expense, and then settles back down. And every time he lets this thought cross his mind he feels low, undeserving, ROTTEN.
> 
> ****He has found himself more prone to tears recently. It does not bear thinking about how many tissues he'll go through if Crowley doesn't wake up.
> 
> *****Said event happened precisely five minutes after Aziraphale had opened up, and the bemused girl walked away with a free copy of '1984' signed by Orwell. Not that this mattered to Aziraphale - such novels lie in stacks in his back room, and his customers might as well take a little joy from novels before those they love up-and-eternally-sleep on them


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, I'm back. As always, thanks for the lovely support:) Please continue to comment - favourite line so far, incomprehensible screaming about what idiots these boys are, anything! Love y'all.

Aziraphale clears his throat, which is wholly unnecessary in the quiet bedroom. 

“Now, Crowley, if this doesn’t rouse you nothing will." He consults the TV Guide before him. "Saturday night programming, 10 o’clock _– Top Gear,_ reboot of the reboot.”

Nothing. Aziraphale buries his head in his hands.

“Oh Crowley.” Sigh. “I really thought that would work. You love laughing at them and going on about how superior the Bentley is compared to everything they test…which, by the way, is debatable.”

It happens so fast Aziraphale almost falls out of his chair – one second Crowley is a sedentary lump under the blankets and the next he has arisen, roaring, eyes lit with that air of You Will All Pay.

“I BEG YOUR FUCKING PARDON.”

Aziraphale feels a crack open in his heart. Something is emerging from it, something with wings. ( _Hope is the thing with feathers_ , he absurdly thinks and chides himself, because the last time he recited dear old Emily in front of Crowley he was met with a very good imitation of someone vomiting).

“Oh Crowley, you’re awake!”

Crowley waves a dismissive hand at him.

“No time for sentiment, angel, WHAT WERE YOU SAYING ABOUT MY CAR?”

“Dear, the time that thing saw better days was in the 30s,” Aziraphale says in his most reasonable tone. He feels so _giddy_ – gosh, he actually has to sit on his hands to stop himself from grabbing his friend and kissing the life out of him.

“It,” Crowley says after drawing himself up to his full height, “is a miracle of modern – well, everything’s modern when you’re us, shut _up_ – engineering. Remember how some devastatingly handsome fool drove it through that massive fire-”

“ _You_ , dear.”

“A regular car would have crumpled,” Crowley insists, and the angel cannot contain himself any longer. Before he’s aware of it he’s landed himself in Crowley’s lap and oh, he has dreamt about him like this, sleep-warmed and softer around the edges.

“Just _stop talking,_ ” Aziraphale says in delight.

After staring at him for a moment, Crowley makes a noise that can roughly be summed up as, "Guh?"

“I thought you were never going to wake up,” Aziraphale soldiers on. “You utter fool, if you _ever_ do that again I’ll listen to Gabriel’s teachings and absolutely smite you.”*

“Angel, haven’t I made it clear I’m already smitten?” Crowley asks (gasps, really), and he’s clearly aiming for nonchalant but missing by a country mile.

"Good," Aziraphale softly says, and with it pushes them into free-fall. "I would not want you any other way, darling, not now."

                                               ******************************************************************************

Even in the years afterward, Crowley never talks about waking. He thinks about it, as he holds Aziraphale close, as they walk hand-in-hand, as his angel "accidentally" nudges him awake after he's napped for too long.** Every now and again the words will form, ready to be plucked fresh from his lips.

_I thought you were just another dream._

Here's the thing:

1\. That opens up too much potential for Aziraphale to look into his eyes and say sweetly, "You are  _my_ dream, darling," and whenever he does something along that line Crowley has to go wreck havoc upon London because he's been so  _damnably_ dry of love, every inch of his skin and soul coiled in waiting for it, and he doesn't know how to cope.***

2\. The guilt he feels still threatens, at times, to swamp him. "I thought they'd taken you," Aziraphale had whispered as he rested on Crowley's lap. Forehead to forehead, a safe space between them. A confessional,  _ten Hail Marys, five I'll-never-leave-you-again-I'm-so-sorry._

Crowley's eyes had widened in horrified recognition. "Fuck," he'd breathed. "Angel, I didn't mean..."

A delicate hand had covered his lips, an attempt at absolution. Hadn't worked.

Sometimes he will still wake up, look at Aziraphale and think,  _forever is not long enough to make up for what I did._

                                                                       

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This was how demons and angels were MEANT to interact. Aziraphale had started off excusing his lack of doing so as 'he's the enemy, I should discover his wily plots' and 'you can't get a good conversational partner around here for sticks nor flint (what can one expect from cavemen) so I might as well let him off'. This then morphed into 'but I had a book I wanted to show him', 'no smiting on Tuesdays/weekends/any day when I don't want to, really', 'after all that pastry I don't have the energy', and so on. We can hide the truth from ourselves for quite a long time.
> 
> **Aziraphale never MEANS to do this. Really, he doesn't. Over-caution is a terrible trait to have. But, on an unrelated note, isn't it amazing the number of occasions Crowley needs to be Awake Right This Minute for? Yes, he could let him sleep a while longer (and longer, and longer, and before you know it he's too far down to reach...) - OR he could alert him to the very interesting dove outside the window! Option B, definitely
> 
> ***This is common. Aziraphale cottons on quickly that Crowley is just not used to compliments, and so he TRIES to ease him into it. But after years of longing it's easy to slip up, and Aziraphale will often find himself deserted after saying something sentimental. Once, memorably, he called Crowley beautiful three times in a row over tea. Crowley stammered, fled, and returned an hour later with a large bouquet, slightly paler cheeks and a trail of small nuisances behind him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I love you, Crowley, I love you. Would you like me to shout it from the rooftops? Would you like me to hang it upon a star? No, I know, I'll rent out a page in the Evening Standard to show the world how much I adore you, how much I am yours, for as long as you'll have me-"

“I could hear you.”

After Crowley has risen, after Aziraphale has bustled around making tea, after apologies have been made and plants reprimanded for slacking off*, Crowley says this.

The world does not quite stop, but Aziraphale thinks it should. Out of courtesy, if nothing else. To have this conversation, a conversation that has foundations built into the core of the very Earth, drafted on stone and papyrus and the Commandments themselves, weighed heavy on Aziraphale's shoulders all these years...

To have a conversation of such importance should take place, preferably, in a void. A place where all Aziraphale can hear is the sound of his own heart beating** to remind him he is not mortal, that he will not break if Crowley has changed his mind, chooses to refuse him.

Instead, life carries on. Birds sing, car horns beep, taxi drivers hurl slurs about the quality, size and gag reflex of one another's maternal figures. Business as usual.

“Ah. I rather hoped you would.”

Crowley peers up from his cup, face stuck between confusion and hope.

“So everything you said...was real?”

“Of course, dear boy.” Aziraphale takes a sip, just for something to do.

“I love you,” Crowley says after a pause. He does not say it as much as he drops it on the floor, like it is something he wants removed from his person, to be tidied away. 

Aziraphale allows himself to bask in this, really stretch out in the beam of its glory. Then he moves across the room to stand before Crowley, who is staring at his feet.

“If you...if you want to change your mind-” Crowley begins, and is silenced by Aziraphale's murmur of  _shhh._

“Dear one," he whispers, "have I not made it clear how much I love you?”

_(Somewhere back along the time-line, a friend tells Shakespeare that he never believed in love more than when he read about Juliet and Romeo._

_Somewhere, C. Bronte lets Jane and Mr Rochester gravitate towards each other._

_Somewhere, an angel loves a demon._

_Their story is still being written)_

The words feel like freedom. They feel like something extracted from the pit of his stomach, something that wouldn't show up on any X-ray. They feel like carefully unstitching his soul and dumping the contents at Crowley's feet, scraping the last shaming secrets out from the corners.

Crowley slowly removes his sunglasses to reveal eyes filled with tears. 

“Say it again,” Crowley whispers. 

“I love you.” Accompanied with a touch to the cheek.

“Again.”

“I love you.” A gentle caress.

“Louder for those in the back,” Crowley croaks, and Aziraphale feels his face split into a grin.

“I love you, Crowley, I love you. Would you like me to shout it from the rooftops? Would you like me to hang it upon a star? No, I know, I'll rent out a page in the Evening Standard to show the world how much I adore you, how much I am  _yours,_ for as long as you'll have me-"

And then Crowley is  _upon_ him, kissing him like a man possessed, one arm around Aziraphale's waist and the other cupping his face. He pulls away for a second, eyes asking _is this all right? Is this what you want?_ before Aziraphale drags him back in.

There has never, Aziraphale thinks, been anything like this. Shakespeare can just pack it in, all the romantic novelists of the world can retire, because there has never been  _anything_ as good as this, and never will be. He will live for as many eternities as he is allowed, but this, this will never be bested.

Crowley's lips are soft and he kisses furiously, trying to make up for lost time, to condense years of  _maybe_ and  _I wish_ into a single moment. Aziraphale guides them back into the armchair, sinking into it, legs and arms poking out. 

“Darling-” he begins, and then collapses into laughter as Crowley nearly falls onto the ground. 

“This went better,” Crowley grumbles, “in my head.”

Aziraphale pulls him back up, onto his lap.

“Oh dear one, how much have you thought of this?”

“Every blessed day since Eden,” his love says. “What about you, Mister don't-drive-me-home-it's-only-been-a-millennia? When did you know?”

Gosh. How could he begin to answer that? He has loved Crowley, in his own way, for so long that it almost didn't register at times. A given:  _the sky is blue, the world is spinning, I love Crowley._

"The church," he finally settles on, because that was when it had properly struck him.

_ (“Little demonic miracle of my own” _

_ He’d wanted to throw himself down and profess thanks _

_ He’d wanted to call Byron and ask for his definition of ‘love’ because he had just brushed right up against the boundaries of it _

_ He'd wanted to ring round the other Nazis and remind them THIS was why crime didn't pay) _

“Some of my best work,” Crowley says with a smirk. 

Aziraphale agrees, and leans in to kiss him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *We cannot accurately say whether Crowley's plants were hoping he'd never wake. Then again, we can't NOT say that. 
> 
> **Fun fact: because Aziraphale viewed the body as less of a temple, more of an experimental merry-go-round of This is What Humans Do And Isn't It Joyous (example: legs to help him dance! How marvelous!) his heartbeat was set to the beat of Vivaldi's 'Four Seasons'. "If I must be stuck in this form," he had told Crowley when they'd been getting to know each other, "I might as well have some fun." "You must be REALLY popular upstairs," Crowley had replied. "I know how much they value creativity and...fun." Aziraphale had conceded this was a fair point, and they had moved on.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeet yote I love you all  
> also I stayed up all night/morning to finish this so pls like it

Has Crowley thought about sleeping with Aziraphale? Of bloody course. In terms of Stupid Questions Crowley Has been Bothered with, that ranks just below "Explain again, Crowley, how does reality TV fit into the great malevolent plan?" (Promotes narcissism, the idealization of deeply unlikable people and bad spray tans, Hastur,  _it's in the fucking slides Satan alive I made clip-art for this and you can't even_ _appreciate_  it).You don't pine after someone for thousands of years without wondering what they'd be like in bed. Sure, Crowley had fallen in love with Aziraphale for thousands of reasons, but it would be a lie to say that at some point down the line he has not touched himself and thought of his friend.

Now that they've reached a point where sex might be on the table (oh G-oh  _somebody_ , just thinking about fucking Aziraphale on a table and Crowley's blushing like a virgin, not the demon who set up the 'Most Orgies Started' sweepstakes Down There) Crowley is lost. Truth be told, he's even a little scared. Just kissing Aziraphale, strong and confident and knowing just where  _oh yes oh yes_ to put his hands, has opened Crowley's eyes up to the very real possibility that he may not be Aziraphale's first. Which...opens up a lot of feelings inside of him (such as a voice screaming from the very pit of his mind  _was I not worth waiting for,_ but he grinds that to dust beneath his heel) but mostly hesitation, confusion. In all his fantasies he was banking on being the experienced one, the one to coolly take the reins while his angel stood back and marveled at how good he was.

Oh bless it, that’s embarrassing, but it’s true. He wants to be _good_ at something, he wants to be praised, he wants to feel in control for once in his life, really break the fucking trend. Examine the facts – he “sauntered vaguely downward” with no choice, he fell in love so quickly and easily he couldn’t hope to stop it, having  _any_ control over the end of the world? Fat bloody chance.

It's amazing he didn't see it coming; Aziraphale is a creature of luxury, plump pillows and servings of extra cream. He likes anything you can wallow around in, anything that resembles stretching out over silk sheets. It would make sense for Aziraphale to have had sex before - the ultimate act of pleasure - or at least read up on it. Fuck it, he probably has  _woodcuts_ of Olde English pornography entitled  _And in a fyeld two peasants shall lye, and hys hande sharl be so far up her skirte it wull never sae the lyght of daye again..._ **contact your local woodcutter for next month's installment.***

While he, Crowley, is...well, terribly inexperienced.

These fears don't stop him from longing, though. They don't stop him from touching as much of Aziraphale's skin that seems safe (hands, face and the jury is currently out on waist). Don't stop his cheeks from lighting up when Aziraphale brushes a light kiss over his temple. Don't stop him from imagining Aziraphale naked when he stretches out and loosens his bow-tie. 

Don't stop him from, when the day turns to night and they finally come together, taking Aziraphale to his bed as he has always wanted.

                                          ******************************

It starts simply. Aziraphale doesn't bring up leaving, and Crowley certainly isn't going to. The light outside the window is fading as they relax in Crowley's 'living-room-in-name-only', which Aziraphale appears most distressed by and keeps offering to brighten up. Crowley has successfully harassed weeks' worth of dust off his plants, and doesn't even have it in himself to complain when he finds the angel consoling one with a "Cheer up, Anthony, you're doing so well."** They’re drinking, have been for hours. Aziraphale is digging into his meal of takeout, something greasy that Crowley can’t stomach but does allow the angel to feed him a bite of. The git knows how to disarm him, ever so gently lifting his chin and raising the fork to his lips.

(This coincides with the moment Crowley, Scourge of Civilization, has to retreat to his bathroom and remind himself to how goddamn breathe).

Late evening finds them upon the floor, Crowley stretched out to his full svelte glory, Aziraphale with his legs primly crossed. 

“I can’t believe it.”

“I was at rather a low point without you, dear.”

“Yes yes, two souls entangled and whatnot, I was there when Bronte did all that. But you actually  _sold_  something?”

“He was wearing a large pair of sunglasses and  _sneered_ at everything,” Aziraphale says primly, as if this explains everything. And because of what Crowley heard, it does.*** 

“…oh. Oh, angel.” Crowley can't decide whether to laugh or just fall down at Aziraphale's feet and beg they just do it, go and get married this second, get married _yesterday_ in fact. 

“Let’s not speak of this again, hmm?”

“We are going to be fucking speaking of this every day of my LIFE,” Crowley says in delight. “You actually parted with one of your precious books because the bloke looked a little like me? For the love of Go-” Aziraphale winces and Crowley quickly backtracks “- _somebody_ , that’s..."

It strikes Crowley – not in a lightning-bolt way, but in a creeping-closer-so-slowly-you-weren’t-even-aware-until-it-was-right-in-front-of-you way – that Aziraphale has been suffering too. He has also spent years in longing for something unnameable, hovering at the doorway, waiting for the starter's gun. 

With several bottles of red wine in his system and a love several centuries in the works the metaphorical dish of the day, Crowley's reaction to such thoughts can only be to lean forward and kiss his angel.

It is unlike no other kiss Aziraphale has received before****. It's soft but hungry; Crowley kisses like he's trying to take in as much of Aziraphale as possible, lest he wake up and realize it was all a dream. His hand comes up to wind through Aziraphale's curls, tugging gently as his love melts beneath him. 

Aziraphale circles his arms around Crowley's waist. The demon moves closer to deepen the kiss, almost throwing Aziraphale off-balance. With a huff he considers Crowley's bed - passable if he removed the satin sheets for something in nice cotton, and the thought of stretching out against the one he loves delights him so that he speaks without thinking, of implications, of the possibility of Crowley's fear:

"Darling, how does the bed sound?"

Crowley turns to stone beneath his hands. 

"Crowley? Terribly sorry if that was a bit forward, I know the need to keep private spaces private is important in relationships..."

Nothing. Dead silence.

"Go on, shock me, what's so bad that you've got to keep it hidden from me? Did you break into the Louvre again because we  _did_ talk about that, dear one. Or have you kept some clothing from each different period because I understand, truly, I still have those nifty shoes from the time we ate crepes! "

His attempt at a light laugh trails away. 

"I...I need to go," Crowley whispers, shakily getting up. One hand fumbles for his sunglasses and Aziraphale cannot stand the thought of him shutting himself off, not again. He grabs Crowley's hand. 

There is a moment where they are both frozen, staring at each other. A moment in which Aziraphale realizes  _oh_ and  _he thought_ and  _I really do keep putting my foot in it, don't I._

Slowly, he tugs on Crowley's hand. Slowly, Crowley places his sunglasses back into his pocket. Disarming himself, laying himself upon the surgeon's table. Cut open and all Aziraphale can see is his heart taking up all of his chest, pushing his ribs to breaking point.

"Where...would you have gone?" he rasps out.

"Dunno," Crowley admits. "Somewhere in the Bentley. Heard Wales is nice this time of...night."

Aziraphale can't contain a giggle and sees Crowley relax at this, just an inch.

"I didn't mean to suggest-"

"Look, all that talk about demons being a great fuck, it's just shop talk really-"

They both stop.

Crowley lets out a little huff of amusement. "Christ, angel, I'm glad we tried to get this sorted  _after_ the apocalypse, or that boy wouldn't have ever been found."

Aziraphale pats the ground next to him, and Crowley sits, leaning into him. "Well, darling, we can hardly take credit for that."

"Hmmm." Crowley rests his head on Aziraphale's shoulder, a comforting weight.

"I've never-" Aziraphale begins, and is cut off by a loud exhale of relief.

"Thank fuck for that, angel."

"It's all very well to be high and mighty," Aziraphale protests. "It's not a  _sin,_ you know."

Crowley tentatively nuzzles his neck and Aziraphale lets out a little sign of contentment. " 'M just glad," he feels more than hears his love whisper, "because I've never, either."

Another moment of hesitation. How humans ever end up in bed with each other is beyond Aziraphale, truly, although the concept of mortality probably spurs them on a bit.*****

"Shall we try this again?" Crowley whispers, and the angel has never heard a sentence more weighted with fear, with longing, with such a strong desire for the unknown-

He lifts him into his lap, truly, this mess of 90 degree angles and limbs that coined the term 'gangly', and kisses him.

"I would love to if you would, Crowley."

He has so much more to say******, but Crowley doesn't give him the chance. He kisses him again, pushing Aziraphale back against the couch, hungry and brutal, all teeth and want.

"Bed," Aziraphale squeaks when Crowley loosens his hold. They stumble to their feet, still clinging to one another, and Crowley doesn't seem able to take his eyes off the angel, seems happy just to stare at him. Aziraphale steers him in the direction of the bedroom, can't resist shoving him against the wall for old time's sake. "Does this stir any memories?" he teases, and Crowley fires back, "It's certainly stirring something, 'Zira,  _please-_ "

Before Aziraphale knows it they're in Crowley's room again, struggling with buttons and zippers, trying to do this all around an unbroken kiss because Aziraphale will be damned if he stops kissing the demon he loves even for a second. With a curse Crowley almost falls onto the bed, pulling Aziraphale with him. Between kisses, the sheets are  _miraculously_ changed from dark satin to a charming flower-pattern which Crowley sneers at before turning all attentions back to the ethereal being poured into a man-suit next to him. 

"Fuck, angel, did I walk into some kind of 'Amish people go to the North pole' scenario here?" Crowley hisses as he struggles with the layers of Aziraphale's clothes. 

"Darling, you exaggerate-"

"Sod this, I'll be old and grey by the time I've removed your bleeding  _waistcoat_ ," Crowley hisses, and suddenly they're both naked, entwined, and nothing outside this room exists. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Titled 'Can Rolfe and Beatrice get it on before they get the pox?' Gripping stuff
> 
> **"Anthony."  
> "Well, when I was keeping an eye on you I started tending to them and, er, one thing led to another."  
> "Anthony."  
> "You just BULLY them so, Crowley, and I thought giving them names might make them feel a bit more special, put a little more green into their leaves, as it were."  
> "Angel, we'll discuss your molly-coddling later. Anthony?"  
> "...I took a shine to him the most, and I shan't apologize for it."
> 
> ***The customer had also been wearing a well-fitting leather jacket and had a snake tattoo curling down his neck. Aziraphale had been so desperate for Crowley by this point that frankly, he had gawped. The customer would later ask his friends down the pub if the owner of the bookshop "you know, the musty one...he a bit thick or something?"
> 
> ****contrary to popular opinion, the angel did not get down and dirty with Oscar Wilde. Several lunches, chats about literature and a bit of flirtation (all from Wilde) was as far as that went. Mr Pennybrook, of the Hundred Guineas club, was another story. He was tall and dashing and quite frankly, Aziraphale only allowed their two-month-long relationship to bloom because a) he'd been angry with Crowley at the time and considered "expanding my social circle beyond demons who can't even drop a fellow a note to let them know he's going into hibernation" the best way to get back at him. And b)? Good gosh but could Mr P. gavotte. Aziraphale might have done nothing but kiss him, but the sight of those swaying hips and long legs? He might, Aziraphale reflected while half-blind with lust, have a type. 
> 
> *****Also - and he is extremely biased here - he can't imagine anyone EVER being attracted to someone who isn't Crowley. Scratch that: he can't even imagine anyone more deserving of love than Crowley. Which is saying something, considering he's lived and wept through the greatest love stories in history and literature (usually with Crowley by his side grouching and elbowing him and quite often getting 'dust' in his eyes, which "isn't at all fucking suspicious angel, this theater hasn't been cleaned since the first fish thought, 'ooh I wonder what's happening up there' and invented legs, and no I DO NOT FIND ROMEO AND JULIET MOVING."
> 
> ******mostly along the lines of "I love you" and "this doesn't change anything" and "I don't mind if you're rubbish because I probably will be too and just touching you is enough to make me dizzy, my love"...but he figured that would probably either make Crowley break down into tears or carry out a one-man reenactment of the sacking of Rome just to escape the fuzzy, gooey, squishy nonsense of it all.


	9. Chapter 9

The shocking, wonderful feeling of skin on skin sends a tingle down Crowley's spine. He wants so badly to say something nonchalant, to drag his reputation back from where it is  _clinging_  to the edge of the Pit of No Return, but there is so much of Aziraphale to touch and  _wonder_ over. He can't take it all in: the downy fuzz on his arms, the soft curve of his arse, the shape of his calves, oh Satan alive he wants to pin the angel to a canvas.

"Crowley?"

"Beautiful," he chokes out. "You're so...'Zira, can I just-"

He reaches out and smooths a hand across Aziraphale's shoulder, enjoying how Aziraphale gasps at his touch. He leans in and kisses him, lets his hand stray down the soft skin of his love's back. 

"You look just as I imagined," Aziraphale whispers. A confessional.

"You...you used to sit in the bookshop and toss off to me then?" Crowley croaks. 

He feels Aziraphale's lips curve into a smile. "Mmmm, once or twice."

A tiny spark of fear alights in Crowley's heart; they've only just begun and he already feels overwhelmed, doesn't know where to start, would  _consume_ the angel if he could.  

"Darling?"

Out of words, he does the only thing he can. He lies back on his elbows, spreading his legs. Inviting. Trusting the angel will know what it means:  _I trust you; I will never hide from you again; I know you stayed away from me out of fear of the powers-that-be so here, here's YOUR chance for a little control; I love you enough to stop running._

And Aziraphale, eyes softening, understands.

                                                            *******************************************

They’re  _fused_ together, and Crowley is coming apart. Aziraphale is between his legs,  _inside_  him in a way Crowley's only dreamed about, and gently thrusting with a look of delighted epiphany on his face.

“You know, dear one, I do remember reading a book that had some fascinating techniques in it…now, if you want to roll over onto your stomach I could-”

“No, no,” Crowley whispers through the gasp building in his throat. “I want to look at you, I want…want to see you, your face is all I’ve dreamed of for these last weeks

_ (and months, and years, and every time I so much as close my eyes) _

Please, don’t – don’t leave me.”

And bless it, he is crying now, and Aziraphale understands because he tenderly reaches down and strokes his cheek.

“My darling, I would  _never._ ”

He gently eases Crowley's thighs wider with one hand, nails teasing the soft flesh just below his crotch, the other hand resting just at the back of his neck. 

 "I love you," he says (whimpers, really) as Aziraphale leans down and kisses his collarbone, the dip of his throat, tracing his lips up Crowley's neck and oh,  _oh-_

" _If I could write the beauty of your eyes,/And in fresh numbers number-' "_  Aziraphale begins to answer, and is cut off by Crowley abruptly kissing him.

"No fucking  _Shakespeare_ ," he protests. "I get a bellyful of him any time you drag me to 'Twats in Tights'-"

"Shakespeare in the Park, you uncultured serpent," Aziraphale corrects, pairing this reprimand with a sharp thrust of his hips. Crowley whines, grabs Aziraphale's spare hand and  _squeezes._  

 "An unwashed drunk with a foul sense of humor, I've got a great idea, why don't we treat him like the best thing since sliced bread, or just bread without weevils in it, he only brought the crowds because I helped him-"

"And I loved you all the more for it," Aziraphale gasps, "so why don't you stop complaining and put that mouth  _to better use._ "

They kiss again, desperately, mouths numb and clumsy with desire. 

“I don’t  _want_ it to be over,” he gasps. “I don’t want any of this to be over.”

“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers, his voice ridiculously gentle. “It won’t be truly over. We’ll have eternity to repeat it,” he brushes a lock of hair out of Crowley’s face, “as often as we like.”

"Sappy," Crowley accuses, ends with a gasp as Aziraphale pushes him closer to completion. "The plants will start expecting fair treatment with you around. Might even form a fucking union, get  _ideas_ -"

Aziraphale laughs in delight, a sound that reaches right into Crowley's chest and touches every one of his soft points. 

"We can start slowly, dear."

"Stuff  _slowly,_ angel-" and then Aziraphale does something with his mouth on the side of Crowley's neck  _just_ at the same time his hands strays downwards.

Two points: one, any reasonable being would crumble at such an act. Passing out and coming around gasping,  _moaning_ obscenely, technically still falls within parameters of 'reasonable.'

Two, where in all the holy realms did his angel learn such things? (And how long will it take to get his breath back so he may become the student in such arts, pleasure his love as he deserves?)

                                                                          ************************************************

"Everything all right, Crowley?" 

He cracks an eye open to glare balefully at Aziraphale, who is doing a poor job of looking innocent. Ravishing, certainly, with his mussed hair and glowing skin. Outside the window the sky is darkening, but neither are sure of the time or even the date. It's not a concern. 

"I can't feel my lower legs."

"Would it please you to have me kiss them better?"

"You're sure you're not the demonic one in this pairing, love? All that lust..."

Aziraphale shoots him a slow, lazy grin. Stretches out across his body. Traces the shape of his mouth.

"I don't see you complaining."

Crowley makes a weak attempt at tackling him, rolls him over onto his back. Drapes an arm across his stomach.

"Was it...worth it?"

"Hmmm?"

"The waiting. The agony, the confusion, the ooh-no-time-to-talk-gotta-defy-Heaven-and-Hell..."

_(Me?)_

"Crowley. Darling. I would do it over a thousand times if I had to."

_(Yes, you were)._

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all: this is it, y'all. Secondly, a massive thank you to everyone who ever read and left kudos and/or comments, you made my day every single time. Please keep reading, sharing, sending to your friends or whatever, and above all keep loving this ineffable pair <3

They marry almost a year later, and as he stands in the bright sunshine of Greenwich Park (it would be a shame to risk his new shoes in a church) Crowley thinks he has never felt more awake.


End file.
